Fields
by ColorM
Summary: "The easiest thing about being Ally and Dez—whatever they are—is that all the flourishing comes subtle, unbeknowst to them." Ally x Dez.


**AN:**

Can I be honest? I just really love making short drabbles like these, ones underneath a thousand words. They're so short and simple, but there's so much metaphor to dissect for the readers. It also leaves such an impact than longer ones, in my opinon of course.

Anyway, hope you enjoy! The most important thing is to enjoy what you've read, more than anything else.

* * *

**Fields**

"Okay."

Ally drums her fingers against her stomach.

She's never done this before, _nor_ has she ever thought of doing so. Her logistics and mannerisms deprive her of things of this sort. _Why would she ever do it anyway? _

Her hair scatters across the white mattress, like vines on a tree. She finds it slightly uncomfortable, being _so _comfortable, but she doesn't necessarily blame the hair. The strands lying around her feel nice loose, after being knotted for so many hours. Her discreet relief a sign that she is _not_ pointing fingers at herself. If anything, she blames the ginger strands lying next to hers.

Dez is, not a large surprise, at blame for everything. He instigated, initiated that she was not fun enough to lay on the bed—a "fun sponge" with no sense of adventure. She tried not to let it get to her, like most situations including him. However, she's always had that small insecurity. She always felt like she wasn't fun enough and could, would, do anything to prove most people wrong. It's the easiest way that most people get under her skin so quickly, like Dez. He knows exactly how to make her feel so bad that she would do anything to make it up to him. He picks, pokes, teases at her, and now she's lying on a store mattress with him until twenty minutes pass (or they get in trouble).

She really doesn't know why she lets him though. His words are so ignorantly unrestrained that it tenses her up all over. He's the only person that makes her so mad at them, _so_ quickly. He doesn't even have to try at it, he just does it. At some point, she even grew to condone it, the harsh poking. He was always so unrestrained that his vices managed to settle some place in her, which is strange since hardly anyone homes anything vice-like in her. _Still_, the feeling of vexation laces through her and she gets slightly irritated.

Ally never yells at him, despite his mean thoughts. She's not capable of it, and…she guesses she also likes him _a little too much_ to do it. He can be rude, very rude, but then he smiles and says something nice in a moment. She gets all putty in his eyes, blush. He makes her feel all nice inside, and because the feeling is so rare, she cherishes it—him.

Dez shuffles against her, landing his hands close to her chin. He stares, with big irises of blue glowing enormous in the light, at her. It makes her anxious in the silence, in the mattress that feels much too like fields of clouds.

"Are you tired?"

The question arrives abruptly towards Ally. She halts from drifting to the left, remaining in his eyes. Her momentary thought slices into separate bubbles. She knew something was coming at her, but she hadn't thought it would be now. He _was_ looking at her like if he would never say anything, the mouth glued shut. However, he was, is, a box full of surprises.

Ally smiles irresistibly, noticing that _his _eyes are fluttering dangerously. He's tired and he doesn't want to tell her. For some reason, she doesn't want to give him the burden of doing so. "Yeah," so she lies to make it up to him, "is it okay if we sleep here?"

He nods, dropping his head onto the edge of her shoulder. She rolls her eyes in amusement, gazing at the tired boy, who lies slightly below her. His hands, which move slowly towards the fingers of hers, make her itch for contact. She latches onto them lazily, before his eyes shut and his breathing decreases in volume.

It makes her think about the many times they've crossed between the lines of friends. He touches her, briefly, but there's always more to it. She likes his hands, especially around hers, but there's never more thought about it. She knows walking on these fields is dangerous, but the flowers smell great and the air is warm—metaphorically. He makes her feel so good, purely innocent in all the minimal affections. They never speak about it, nor bring it up. However, people hint at it, the possibilities. They see things and peer at gestures, but she doesn't think there's much to unfold.

The easiest thing about being Ally and Dez—whatever they are—is that all the flourishing comes subtle, unbeknowst to them.

It doesn't take her mind long to linger into black, not when his own mind is gone. She takes strange comfort in the feel of his light hair on her shoulder, or the hands she's latching.

* * *

"Uh," the black haired girl begins, "what are we supposed to do about them?"

The man catches what's seen before his eyes, the two tangled amidst each other. It _would_ be necessary to get them out, but that _wouldn't_ be mandatory until a few hours. He simply smiles and shrugs off everything. "Nothing."


End file.
